


At First Glance

by machka



Series: Anodyne [3]
Category: Bandom: Axium, Bandom: MWK, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/pseuds/machka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, that "worst-ever, sounds-like-a-pick-up-line" conversation starter nets you a friend, the kind you never knew you needed...until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At First Glance

**Author's Note:**

> Who can tell if it's love at first sight? All David knows is, that kid is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
> 
> Written for prompt #30 on my Random 30 Prompt Table of Doom: _Enchant_
> 
> Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The events described therein are not intended to represent actual events. No libel or defamation is intended in posting said fictitious work.
> 
> In other words, it's not real, because I made it all up.

Your frat brothers know you're in a band, and one of them tells you about the indie rock scene in Tulsa (your reaction: "There's an indie rock scene in Tulsa? _Really?_ ") - so you and a few of your buddies decide to make a weekend of it. You figure a little break from the schoolwork can't hurt...and besides, wasn't Jeff always bitching about how bored he was, playing the same tiny venues all over the Midwest? Maybe it was time to expand your horizons south.

Your fake ID is good enough to get you in the door, but you're only seven months removed from being legal and you don't want to fuck with that shit; so you bribe your buddies to buy you shots, using them to slap your conscience into submission and shut it the fuck up.

Afterwards, you and a longneck settle at a table at the back of the bar with your buddies, soaking up the atmosphere.

There's a group of guys across the room from you; four guys drinking and joking and laughing their asses off... but man, which of them let their kid brother tag along?

You take a deep swig from your bottle and study the kid appraisingly.

He spends most of his time with his eyes downcast, occasionally glancing up and flashing a smile at his companions, so you surmise he isn't deaf. He answers the waitress when she stops at their table, so you deduce he's not mute... He looks nervous when one of the guys, the one with the most kick-assed piercings you've ever seen, pushes a bottle his way, so you _know_ he's underaged... man, if only the fake ID you'd had at his age (you're estimating 16; _maybe_ 17, tops) were even half as good as the one the kid must be carrying... you imagine all the trouble you would've gotten yourself into, and smile. You see all the trouble he's _not_ getting into, and you wonder.

Time shades and blends the deeper you settle into your cups. The empties pile up in front of you, and then you blink and realize the fine gentlemen you'd been observing are mounting the stage... and damned if that kid isn't standing at the mike, front and center.

You turn your chair to face the stage and lean forward, intrigued.

The kid turns away from the crowd, almost shyly, and glances at the other members of the band arrayed around him. Then he's nodding to the drummer, and all hell breaks loose.

As quiet and reserved as he'd been before, onstage the kid just mother-fucking comes _alive_ , whipping his head to the beat and flashing this absolutely devious grin at the crazy mother-fucker on lead guitar next to him, and the dance floor is a sea of thrashing limbs and fists punching the air, following the kid's lead.

And God _damn_ if this band isn't the tightest you've heard in God-knows-how-long - you'd almost be jealous of that fucking kid if you didn't have Axium at home.

He whirls around on the audience, snatching the mike from the stand. He _glares_ out at the mass of humanity from under his drawn-together brows, and snarls out the first lyric with that same manic grin, and holy fucking shit, where the fuck did that kid get that fucking _voice?_

It's a breathy tenor, but not in the way that irritates the fuck out you like so many other poseurs do -- it's airy and it's light; it's high and it's pure and it's soaring and it's so-many-different-flowery-adjectives-to-describe-it that you're sure that voicing them would get your ass beaten by a half-dozen rednecks in this fucking bar and it's sending God-damned _chills_ down your fucking _spine,_ and you wonder what it would sound like on tape and you could just sit here and listen to that voice all God-damned _night,_ holy fuck...

As the song crashes to a halt, you turn to your friends with a glazed expression that for once has nothing to do with the alcohol in front of you, and croak out a single question: "What the fuck was _that?_ "

The next song begins, and Jesus Christ, it wasn't a fluke... Your eyes are glued to that kid and your mouth's hanging open and your friends are trading Significant Looks™ behind your back, though you could absolutely not give a fuck. They're just listeners, not musical connoisseurs, and they have absolutely no fucking clue about the layers and nuances they're missing.

Genius. Pure, fucking _genius_.

All too soon the set's over, and the Midwest Kings (what a fucking fantastic name for a band, you think) exit the stage and head for the bar. Without thinking, you jump to your feet and follow, ignoring the laughter and taunts from your so-called buddies. You can't even be arsed to throw them the finger in reply, which really says something about your sudden obsession with that kid, but you really don't want to think about that now.

You shoulder your way up to the bar, accidentally jostling the guitar player, who is glaring down his nose at you with an attitude to match his licks. You throw him your most winning smile, and his eyebrows arch in opposing directions.

Behind you, the kid turns away from the bar as you turn to him, and you're confronted with the widest, most breathtaking pair of doe-eyes in a shade of hazel you've never ever _seen,_ and you are absolutely and completely done for.

"Has anyone ever told you you're absolutely fucking beautiful?"

Really, brain? _Really_?

There's a loud guffaw from the guitarist behind you as the blush lights up your face.

The kid blinks at you, and then grips your arm lightly as he cracks an easy smile. "Thanks," he replies (and God-damned if his speaking voice isn't just as melodious as his singing voice, holy fuck...). He nods once and slips past you to head outside.

He pauses just inside the doorway, and glances back.

His eyes lock onto yours, and the shyest half-smile crosses his lips before he inclines his head in an invitation to follow.

You can feel the guitarist's eyes -- and those of your buddies -- on your back as your feet start to move, pursuing the kid out back to the relative quiet of the backyard patio, but you don't care - you're too busy trying to figure this kid out.

He's obviously got friends here at the bar, for the drinks don't stop coming, and they're loosening your tongue. He's a damn good listener, and suddenly it's hours later, and you've been friends forever. You've told this kid -- Andy -- things your own _brother_ doesn't know about you, and he's shared a little too: he's 17 (damn, you're good), but not for too much longer himself; local boy, father's a doctor, supports his son's musical ambitions without question...

You watch his lips move as he tells you how his father paid for his band's studio time on their upcoming EP, and you wonder absently if they taste like the rum and Coke he's been nursing for the past hour and a half.

Last call comes and goes, and you're finally forced to leave under duress, towed by your buddies, clutching a cocktail napkin with his e-mail address and phone number in your hand and promising that you'll call him soon.

He raises his hand to wave good night, and your heart is absolutely aching for another glimpse of that delicate smile.


End file.
